


Kissing Booth

by crimsonkitty



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Baseball, Drunkenness, Fluff, Humor, Kissing, M/M, Platonic Kissing, RPF, San Francisco Giants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-18
Updated: 2012-02-18
Packaged: 2017-10-31 09:56:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/342708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonkitty/pseuds/crimsonkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Request fic for Jak: Tim gets blasted and decides it's a good idea to start making out with his catchers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kissing Booth

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to littlestclouds for the beta. Apologies for the awful title.

Tim drinks. Of course he does. He’s a professional baseball player, a damn good one according to the twin Cy Youngs on his mantle and the number 55 jerseys that sell like hot cakes. He’s a twenty something who hangs out with other twenty somethings, all with enough adrenaline pumping through their veins to make the top of someone’s head blow off if they stand still long enough. 

So when he goes out, there’s probably going to be alcohol involved. Like tonight for instance. Tonight there’s a LOT of alcohol involved.

He’d like to say it’s not his fault. People keep handing him things and he’s not sure if it’s Zito or Brian or a stranger, only it tastes good so he’s not all that concerned. Every couple of drinks, he tries to reach for the wallet in his back pocket but his hand keeps missing, pocket jumping away from him like a small animal. And that’s when another bright pink something appears in his hand that he absolutely has to try because it’s bright pink and it matches Brian’s shirt.

Now he’s warm from the inside out and everything blurring a little at the edges, the crowded bar bathed in the soft light of alcohol. Every time he turns his head, the room spins just a couple more feet than it should.

He’s feeling happy and in love with his life and in love with his team and he suddenly really wants to kiss someone. 

No. Catchers. He wants to kiss a catcher. Because Tim likes his catchers more than he likes almost anyone else, even his fellow pitchers, and he feels like a kiss is a good way of showing appreciation for doing a good job.

But mostly he just wants to kiss a couple catchers because you hear things about catchers that you don’t about any other position. Something to do with their hands and their legs and Tim can’t remember exactly what it was only he really wants to know if it’s true.

Decision made, he sets out to stalk his prey, trying to stay low to the ground, only it makes him dizzy so he just bends over a little. His eyes narrow into slits on his face in what he hopes is an appropriately bad ass expression. Like he’s out in the jungle with a rifle, hunting down tigers or staring down some asshole from the mound and Buster’s giving the sign for a-little-too-far-inside-if-you-know-what-I-mean. 

No one pays him much attention, too many bodies stuffed into too small a space like they’re happy sardines, which is how he catches Eli by surprise. Gets to him first because he’s the closest. Just grabs him around those big shoulders with no particular plan in mind except how warm his belly feels.

When Eli turns to look, unsuspecting and lips still moving in conversation with Bumgarner, Tim pounces. Plants a big smacker on him, Eli’s mouth open just enough to make it easy. Tim dips his tongue in for a moment because he figures if you’re going to drunkenly kiss someone, might as well make it a good one.

Eli is staring at him, wide-eyed and frozen (Tim will have to remind him later that it’s not nice to kiss with your eyes open and I sure hope you don’t kiss your wife like that), and there’s a surprised sound against Tim’s mouth. Eli tries to say something but it comes out muffled, air ticklish against Tim’s lips.

When Tim pulls back, Eli has a deep red spreading down his neck that Tim has never seen before. Not even that night when they pushed him on stage at that karaoke bar, stumbling over the crooked stairs, and made him sing Shania Twain until three in the morning under pain of all his underwear disappearing.

He’s laughing though, a good sign, and Eli’s not the type to get angry anyway, not even when Tim throws one over his head. Tim’s always liked that about him, how cool headed he is. And not just on the field. He almost considers going back in for a second time because seeing Eli blush is one of the funniest things he’s seen all night, except over Eli’s shoulder is Jonathan Sanchez with death in his eyes, glaring at Tim from across the room, and Tim decides it’s best he skedaddles out of there.

Stew is next and he’s expecting it. But it’s only because Tim sidles up to him and haltingly tells him of his brilliant plans for the night and how much he loves all of them. Chris laughs and asks him why, clearly not sure if he should be taking this seriously or not.

“Because. Because you guys are _awesome_ and and I want you to know... that I _appreciate_ you.” He puts emphasis on appreciate just so Stew knows he’s very serious. More serious than he’s ever been. His lips keeps sloshing over his words, his tongue dry and he thinks he needs more liquid in him. But there’s still kissing to do even though he has to stand on his tip toes because Stew is fucking tall though you wouldn’t know it until you stood next to him. It mostly consists of Chris keeping him from falling over when everything gets too high and swoopy and Chris is good at that. Keeping him from falling on his ass.

He’s skinny too. Almost as skinny as Tim and damn skinny for a catcher, though everyone is always telling Tim he looks like a pre-pubescent teenager.

No one ever says things like that to Chris. It must be because of the beard. Tim wrinkles his nose when it tickles his cheeks.

“Scratchy,” he mutters and Chris raises an amused eyebrow at him. In the end, Tim only manages the corner of his mouth but he deems it enough. Chris shakes his head, smiling, and pushes him away in a different direction, telling him to spread the love else where. Tim doesn’t feel him stealing the keys out of his back pocket.

He wanders for the next little bit, imbibing more fruity concoctions from teammates’ glasses and none of them seem to mind. They just laugh and pat him on the head and call him shrimp. It’s Burrell who finally points him towards Buster, physically turning him to the far wall like they’re playing pin the tail on the donkey. Burrell laughs at him when Tim tells him this. “Kid’s certainly got the ass for it. He might kill you if you said that to him, though.”

Tim pushes away and waves him off at the same time. “N’aw. He likes me too much,” he reassures the way too tall veteran.

Buster is stone cold sober when Tim finds him. Hop skipping on those crutches from conversation to conversation but never saying much. Can’t mix the alcohol with pain meds, doctor’s orders.

Though he looks like he could use a stiff drink. They’ve managed to drag him out of the house for the night, Kristen telling them how stir crazy he’s been going. Tim could believe it. The guy looked miserable before he’d caught sight of who was at the door.

He smiles when he sees Tim though, Tim bobbing and weaving his way over to him, mouth going in and out of focus the more Tim stares. Teeth too shiny in his mind, standing out amidst the Bay Area fog that’s somehow found its way inside and Tim wonders if that’s what all the golden boys from Georgia look like. Shiny teeth and neck stubble and thighs bigger than most people’s torsos. 

The closer he gets, the more he feels the heat of his belly rising up to his face. Haze of his mind clearing just enough for him to wonder if maybe he should think about this one a little first.

But it’s too late and he’s standing in front of Buster before he realizes it, jacket brushing the front of Buster’s white t-shirt. He grabs him by the ears to pull him down, their noses bumping gently. Buster almost overbalances and Tim can feel those crutches knocking into him. He has a mission to accomplish though and no stupid thing like gravity is going to keep him from it.

“Woah,” Buster calls out but is cut off half way through when their lips meet and then he’s stuck there, precariously balancing against Tim, one of his crutches trying to find the floor. Tim would almost feel bad if he weren’t trying to kiss the life out of Buster, tongue clumsily pushed into his mouth and teasing at the roof of it.

Buster tastes like bubblegum and pretzels and his lips are red and shiny like his teeth when Tim pulls back.

His hand falls from around Buster’s neck.

“Hi.”

Buster is blinking at him, stunned. Not the impressive stunned when Tim’s just thrown a complete game or the good natured stunned of Eli from earlier. But the quieter stunned that’s a continuous frozen flashback of the last thirty seconds.

Tim bites down on his own bottom lip, tingling of his mouth reminding him of the amount of drink in his system. “Oh. Wasn’t expecting that.”

The line of Buster’s eyebrows are drawing down in confusion now, instead of shock, tongue flicking out instinctively. Tim’s fingers are tingling now too.

He pats Buster on the shoulder, good-naturedly like it’s the end of a game and they’re on the winning side, before he wobbles away, his knees and his face numb and he’s not too sure what the connection there is. He hears the clack of crutches behind him as Buster regains his balance.

His face is hot and he feels a little dizzy, energy draining out of him all at once. So he sits at the bar and lays his head down on the counter top. It’s cold and smells like lemon soap and vodka.

He falls asleep there, with his face sticking to it.


End file.
